


our love keeps the things it finds

by Jagged



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Bruises, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Possessive Behavior, Samot Being Contrary, Threesome, Trans Character, lots and lots of kissing, my kink is good communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 04:06:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11798037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jagged/pseuds/Jagged
Summary: Samothes is possessive, Samot is amused and Hadrian is stuck in the middle, aka the Hadrian sandwich fic.





	our love keeps the things it finds

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted my first fic for this fandom to be gen but this happened so. enjoy. its like 3.5k words of gratuitous porn. i havent written porn in like 5 years. special thanks to the fucky discord for your patience, come talk to me on twitter @jackaljag

"I believe we've talked about this before, Samot."   
  
"Husband," Samot purrs from behind Hadrian's shoulder, smug and unruffled; Hadrian, taken off-guard, feels blood rushing to his face as he raises his eyes to see his god pause in the doorway and take a long moment to look at them.   
  
Weakly he says "My lord," then trails off. He doesn't have to imagine what they look like, because there's a mirror right there across from them. It's compromising, at best. Samot smiles and bites at Hadrian's neck again, the way he was doing before Samothes interrupted, more eager even; Hadrian has to bite down on his tongue to not make some embarassing sound, fingers tight and tugging at Samot's loose shirt like it could stop him.  
  
It doesn't.   
  
Samothes' eyes are dark as they move over the two of them, and when he starts to move to join them there is an intensity to his step that Hadrian hasn't seen before, only imagined — on a battlefield, maybe, or in judgment. His first instinct is to drop from the seat to the floor, on his knees, only Samot has a hand in his hair, teeth still at the side of his neck, keeping him in place. Already he can see the beginning of marks rising under his skin in the mirror, a deliberate, aggressive mess of red smeared from collar to jaw.   
  
It's not shame, or guilt, that makes him want to move, because neither of them are particularly subtle about sleeping with Hadrian and it's been made clear they have an agreement like he has with Rosana, it's just... he's also never been in the same room as the two of them at once before, not while doing this, and there's a history now that presses over his shoulders. For thousands upon thousands of years they've known, touched, fought, loved each other — who is he to intrude, what right does he have?   
  
Someone growls, a deep resonant noise that snaps him out of his uncertainty, and it takes a moment for Hadrian to realize it's coming from Samothes. It makes his breath catch, his eyes jump again from the mirror to his god now within touching distance; Samot licks messy and hot over the last hickey and loosens his grip on Hadrian's hair, whispers  _Don't worry_  in his ear.  
  
Hadrian's about to ask, but then there's a big hand at his throat, callused and radiating heat and oh.  _Oh_. There's pressure on the bruises, not harsh but firm enough to spark a lingering ache under his skin, and Hadrian can't suppress this whimper, doesn't even think to try. Samot laughs, a warm huff of air on the side of his face, until Samothes turns his eyes on him — then the laughter trails into a hum, Samot cocking his head, the beginnings of a smirk curving his lips.   
  
"No marking what's mine," Samothes says, and reaches over Hadrian's shoulder to push Samot against the back of the sofa. He goes easily but grabs onto Samothes' wrist, pulls hard enough that Samothes has to take a step forward to steady himself — and Hadrian has to shift to accomodate them, finds himself sitting between Samot's legs, half-turned to watch them as Samothes' hand drops from his throat to drag Samot's away from where they've been resting on Hadrian's hip, on Hadrian's ass.   
  
He should be saying something, probably. But his mouth is dry as as dust and his pants are real tight; Samothes is kissing Samot, domineering and mean, and Samot is  _letting_  him, is the thing.  
  
"Stay," Samothes says when he finally runs out of air or has gotten his message across, Hadrian's not entirely sure. Slender though he is, Samot's not a small man; still, the difference in their frames makes it look so. His wrists seem too thin in Samothes' hands. It feels like there should be bruises, but when he lets go of him the skin is still pale and unmarked. Samot flexes his fingers, and he's biting his lip with a thoughtful look Hadrian is starting to recognize as the one he gets when he's going to push back. But he doesn't move his hands from his side yet, and he doesn't outright say no.   
  
Hadrian wouldn't trust him for a minute, but it seems enough for Samothes, who pulls back and turns again to Hadrian. His hand comes to cup the back of Hadrian's neck, thumb pressing into the bruises harder than the first time. Hadrian squirms, says something that might have been a  _please_ if his voice was steadier. Samot meets his eyes in the mirror, looks between them then smiles, sly and fond. Samothes nods, half to himself, and then he's pulling Hadrian in, kissing him harder than he's ever done before. There's teeth, and that hand at the back of his neck keeping him in place, and Hadrian closes his eyes, yields entirely.  
  
"You make such a sight," he hears Samot say, feels hands slipping under his shirt and undoing his belt, the fastenings of his pants, then his underwear's. Hadrian shudders full-bodied at the touch, whimpers in Samothes' mouth. "Gorgeous," Samot says now, and presses a kiss right under Samothes' hand rests.  
  
Again Samothes growls. This close to him Hadrian can feel the vibration in his chest, the furrowing of his brow as his eyes snap from Hadrian's face to Samot's.   
  
He tries to follow when Samothes breaks away, but renewed pressure on his neck makes him check himself. Samot's hands are still on him, now tracing slow circles at the crease of his hip.  
  
"I  _said_  stay, Samot."   
  
"You did," Samot hums in agreement. Hadrian can hear the laughter in his voice. It's baffling, that he can be like this in the face of Samothes' disapproval; Hadrian's only a witness to it rather than its target and still he wants to apologize, roll over and show his belly.   
  
"Do I need to restrain you?" Samothes asks, low and dangerous, and in the moment it takes for Hadrian to consider that image Samot has already shrugged it aside.  
  
"Probably," he's saying, amusement still heavy in his voice, still refusing to touch Hadrian where he needs to be touched, "but — and I can't believe I'm saying this — this isn't about me, is it?"    
  
A scoff. "It is about you taking liberties with my paladin."   
  
And now they're both looking at him and Hadrian feels himself flush, honesty compelling him to open his mouth and say "I... wasn't exactly unwilling."   
  
Now Samot really laughs, a delighted bark of a sound; Samothes himself softens, creases at the corners of his eyes, says "I would certainly hope not. Nevertheless —"   
  
The kiss this time is gentler, open-mouthed and heated, but for the way Samothes bites at his lip before pulling away.   
  
"— you are mine," he says, eyes intent and dark, and Hadrian swallows suddenly, stammers in assent. "Say it," Samothes says, bending to put his mouth over the places Samot left his mark on earlier, scraping teeth and sucking on skin, Hadrian shaking as he does as ordered,  _yours yours yours_  an earnest, stumbling prayer falling from his his lips.  
  
He trails off when he realizes Samothes isn't content just covering Samot's marks; his broad hands push Hadrian's shirt open, and he is lowering himself to his knees in front of Hadrian like he belongs there. Maybe he does. Where he presses his mouth as he makes his methodical way down Hadrian's chest Hadrian almost expects to see branded. His hands roam over Hadrian’s sides, tracing ribs and muscle with casual ownership; when he digs his nails into the lines of old scars Hadrian keens.   
  
By the time Samothes takes Hadrian in his hand he is so hard his hip jerks into the touch and he whimpers at the warmth of it, so close to being too much, the texture of callouses, the firm grip and slow strokes.   
  
"Look at me, Hadrian," Samothes says, and Hadrian obeys, keeps his eyes on his god's as he takes Hadrian into his mouth. He's barely been touched and yet it feels like he's about to come apart any instant now, or wake up maybe, but then Samot is there with him, chin hooked over his shoulder, chest pressed against his back, a new weight that he can focus on to not fall apart just yet.  
  
"He doesn't do this often, you know," Samot tells him in a whisper more for show than discretion, "you should be flattered," and Hadrian knows, and is, transfixed as Samothes holds him down by the hip, methodically takes him apart with tongue and mouth until he is shaking all over, nails dug deep into his palm in a desperate attempt to take the edge off, swallowing down pleas he doesn’t dare utter.   
  
Samot kisses him then: tugs at his hair hard and forces him to turn his head, break eye contact with Samothes. Hadrian feels fear catch in his throat, nearly flinches away — but Samot pulls at him and he cannot deny a god.  
  
It's a gentle kiss despite it all, unfamiliar, Samot's customary teeth and hunger leashed. Hadrian would ask why the change, except he thinks he knows, feeling the weight of Samothes' attention on them, the bruising grip of his hands on Hadrian's hips, the sudden loss of heat as Samothes pulls away from him and rises to his feet.   
  
"Enough," he hears, and then Samot is dragged away from him by the scruff of the neck, his golden hair cascading over Samothes' knuckles, his eyes bright as he twists in Samothes' grasp; there's some sort of short-lived struggle mostly carried out through eye contact and the filthiest kissing Hadrian's ever been witness to, and then Samothes tosses Samot back down on the sofa, pulls his shirt off, extends a hand towards Hadrian.  
  
"Your belt."   
  
It takes a moment for him to understand, another to fumble with his clothes and work the belt out of its loops. He feels light-headed, untethered, already missing touch.  
  
"You should've let him finish at least," Samot comments, sympathetic as he stretches out on his back, lazy like it was his idea to lie down instead of Samothes' weight pinning him down. He shakes his head with a sigh, then, snide: "Take care of him better, husband, or I will."   
  
The backhand, it seems, takes all three of them by surprise.   
  
Samothes draws his arm back slowly, and Samot thoughtfully wipes at the blood from on his lip, and Hadrian tries to figure out, first, when he forgot how to breathe and two, what his feelings are doing. He replays the moment in his head: the sharp crack, the way Samot's head snapped to the side, the glint in his eyes; feels something hungry knot deep in his belly; catches himself wishing that was him.  
  
But Hadrian is no god, only — an instrument, and so he remembers himself, kicking off his pants and shuffling over to Samothes, belt in hand as asked. Samothes doesn't react at first, still staring down at Samot; it's only when Samot looks up to meet his eyes and gives a small, measured nod that he does, and Hadrian sees tension he hadn't noticed coil up release from his shoulders.   
  
"Come here, Hadrian," he says, and pulls him close when he obeys, hand around his wrist, the other stroking his hair. It's a proprietary sort of gesture; it also feels very, very nice. "You'll do anything I tell you to, won't you?"  
  
Hadrian nods, leaning back into his hand; carefully ignores Samot's smirk and raised brow.  
  
Samothes, agonizingly patient, says: "I want to hear you say it, Hadrian."  
  
"Yes," he says. "Anything."  
  
Samothes pets his hair again, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. "Good boy," he says, and Hadrian melts into the touch like a cat, warmth pooling in his belly at the praise. "Tie his hands." he says now, closing Hadrian's hand over his belt rather than picking it up himself, and pushes him towards Samot.   
  
Hadrian goes; has to straddle Samot to reach, his arms above his head, languid and waiting and not a word in protest.  
  
It's so easy these days, to forget the stories: that Samot was a killer before he was anything else. Incongruously Hadrian has never been as aware of that fact as now, with Samot stretched out bared and vulnerable under him, nothing of the wolf in view. He keeps expecting him to flip them around, or snap, but no: the closest he gets is testing the give as Hadrian loops weathered leather around his wrists and cinches it tight. Still, there is a look to his eyes like a sated animal's, lazy and slow with a promise of future teeth and claws, and that more than anything else assures Hadrian that all is right.  
  
And it is heady, after all, to have Samot like this under him. Hadrian can't quite resist the urge to trace the lines of his face, remembering a time when he dreamt of it nightly — his index skates over the shell of an ear, the curve of a brow, down the bridge of his nose, the curve of his lips.   
  
Samot's eyes flutter shut, a soft noise falling from his lips. Hadrian's finger dips into his mouth and he takes it with barely a graze of teeth, licks at the pad then sucks slow and deliberate.  
  
"Good," he hears Samothes say. "Keep him quiet."  
  
As divine orders go, he's followed much worse. There's movement behind him, a rustle of cloth. Hadrian pushes a second finger in, watches as Samot's throat works to swallow around them. He's making that noise again, muffled, a low flush rising in his cheeks, and Hadrian realizes, climbs off Samot to sit beside him instead and watch Samothes push his thighs open.   
  
It's not the best angle, but — he can see the flex of Samothes' wrist, catch a glimpse of wetness on his fingers whenever he pulls out to tease, feel the quiet sounds Samot's making around Hadrian's fingers, the tilt of his hips.  
  
He's thinking of kissing the noises from Samot when Samothes adresses him again. "You've fucked my husband before, haven't you?" and there's something in how he says it, the emphasis on  _my_  rather than  _husband,_  how it's like Samot isn't right there.  
  
"I — yes, just not — not like this," Hadrian says, thinks of the last time Samot cornered him in a bedroom and rode him hard, left bruises and bite marks and cuts that lingered under his clothes and had Hella smirking at him for a week.  
  
"It's only fair, isn't it, Samot." Samothes leans in, head low above Samot's. "If I must share my paladin with my husband then it should be on my terms, don't you think? Hadrian, let him speak."  
  
A bit regretfully, Hadrian pulls his hand back. Samot lets go with barely a nip, eyes fixed on Samothes'. His composure is flagging, which Hadrian attributes to whatever Samothes is doing with his fingers, but he keeps his voice commendably level.   
  
"What if I say no?"  
  
Samothes smiles, slow and knowing. "Are you?"  
  
Samot huffs, pushes his hip into Samothes' hand like a particularly demanding cat. "No."  
  
"Thought so. Hadrian, here."  
  
Again he goes. Samothes nudges him into taking his place between Samot's parted thighs but stays close enough that Hadrian can feel his chest moving with every inhale behind him.   
  
"You are going to fuck him," Samothes says, low and heated by his ear, "and I am going to fuck you. Objections?"  
  
Any words Hadrian might have had dried up by the end of that first sentence. He shakes his head. Hesitates.  
  
Samot clicks his tongue. "Don't make me wait for it."  
  
And well, if he's asking so nicely... Hadrian pulls at his hips, lines up. Samot sighs when he slides in, magnanimously gives him ten seconds to adjust himself before baring his teeth. "Hadrian," he growls, warningly, but Samothes is still at Hadrian's back and his command to "Take it slow" takes precedence over whatever Samot would want.  
  
Slow and steady it is, deep thrusts eased by how wet Samot is. He rocks into it, biting his lip in frustration that he can't set the pace; Hadrian sees a bead of red at his mouth, the split reopened, and leans to lick it, can't help but grin when Samot snaps teeth at him. When he puts a hand down over Samot's tied hands he moans and oh, that's a noise Hadrian likes, so he keeps it there, puts some more weight on it, tries to get the same noises out of him that Samothes did earlier.  
  
"I'm going to, ah, tear out your throat if you don't get a move on," is a threat that would have a lot more weight to it if only his breath wasn't growing unsteady or his fingers not digging crescents into Hadrian's belt. Hadrian, heady from the power, pauses in fucking him to kiss the hollow of his throat. Samot kicks him petulantly. Hadrian considers biting him, just to return the favor.  
  
Then he feels Samothes' hand on his back, broad and warm. "No marking," he reminds Hadrian, and then there's a finger pressing into him, slick from some oil or Samot or whatever Ingenuity Alive has ready for this kind of occasions. "Don't stop," Samothes adds, so Hadrian slowly shifts back into it and then into Samot, and then he's fucking himself, feels the stretch with every roll of his hips as Samothes works a second finger in, a third.    
  
When Samothes finally removes his hand and pushes in, driving him into Samot, it's almost too much. Then Samothes moves, measured, implacable, and it is absolutely too much. It must show in his face; Samot's eyes are suddenly on him, searching, flicks his gaze to Samothes who stills.   
  
Hadrian takes an unsteady breath, then another. They give him time. "I—I'm okay," he says, testing the truth of it as he says it. He thinks it is; he's adjusting now, the edge wearing smooth, the instinctual panic at being pinned between two divine bodies receding.   
  
"Slower, then," Samothes rumbles. He runs his hand up along Hadrian's side, lingers on his neck then tips his chin to the side, presses a kiss at his temple. It feels oddly tender after everything but Hadrian's not complaining, Hadrian whimpers and turns to try and catch his mouth. He gets another kiss for that, open-mouthed and wet, and then because he feels bad for spooking them he grinds back against Samothes,  _go on, it's alright_.  
  
Carefully, Samothes resumes moving. Hadrian focuses on breathing, on Samot's face, on the incredible trust they're putting in him, that he's allowed this at all, and past the first hurdle it is — incredible, every shift in their bodies, every movement, however slight, resonating and amplified.   
  
It's not — perfect, exactly, the angle's slightly off and the cadence a bit choppy, but also it's — Samothes driving him into Samot and Samot's impatience moving him against Samothes, Hadrian strung between them, surrounded by heat and eventually content to let go of all control and just soaking in the sensation, letting Samothes fuck Samot through him, forcing whimpers and the prettiest little moans out of his mouth and making him arch, needy and beautiful and —  
  
"'m really close," he gasps, unsure how they want this. Samothes bites his shoulder, hard and bruising, snaps his hips.  
  
"You can come," he says, and Samot bites his lip, eyes half-lidded and arms shaking but still, somehow, above his head; clenches down with Hadrian inside of him and Hadrian stops trying to hold back.   
  
Samothes barely slows, only he winds an arm between Hadrian and Samot. He fucks Hadrian through the aftershocks, urges Samot with fingers rough on his clit until he too is reaching his climax, head buried in his shoulder and hair a golden, tangled mess. A few more thrusts after that and he's pulling out of Hadrian, stroking himself to completion.   
  
For a moment after they all stay quiet. Catching their breaths, steadying themselves. Then Samot rolls his eyes, slips the leather from his wrists and nudges at Hadrian.   
  
"Get off."  
  
Hadrian grumbles but complies, easing himself from him. Going anywhere seems a bit too much of an effort, however, so he stays draped on the sofa, making a vague attempt at locating his clothes. It's difficult. Samothes is rubbing circles on his back and looking rather pleased with himself, and basking under his regard feels much more important than anything else Hadrian can think about right now.  
  
"That was very good timing on your part," Samot says to Samothes, and steals a kiss. He stretches, walks across the room to dig out towels from some drawer.  
  
"You knew I was going to walk past." Samothes critically eyes the hickeys on Hadrian's neck. "Did you really  _have_  to do that?"


End file.
